


It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

by Evil_Little_Dog



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Little_Dog/pseuds/Evil_Little_Dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bloody fine day for the world to end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruuger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/gifts).
  * Inspired by [World Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3614) by [Ruuger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/pseuds/Ruuger). 



> Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns all, this is his sandbox. However, Ruuger wrote the story this is based off of, so, I’m about two steps farther away than normal on the food chain.  
> 

X X X

It’s a bloody fine day for the world to end.

Spike wipes blood and other fluids off his forehead with the back of his hand, freshening his grip on his sword. He wonders where everyone else is. He wonders if anyone’s still alive. No time to think about it, though, not with another nasty charging forth. He exchanges blows with the demon, thinking of the stupidity of it all – he was a demon, too, ought to be fighting on the other side – but no, he loved this stupid world too much to let it go down without a battle. “That’s for Manchester United!” Spike swings his sword, connecting with a limb and hacking it off. Showing his teeth and his wrinklies, he roars, charging back into the fray.

Fray.

It’s a _lovely_ word.

There’s no time to think. Spike dodges a spear, but overbalances, and falls. Frantically, he stabs up, the sword skittering off of an armored chest. The blade clangs against the asphalt, the sound of it ringing out like a bell. Should’ve been a sign of a fine weapon but Spike grimaces at the sight of the blade, bent at an angle. “Bloody hell.” As a sword, it makes a great club, and Spike uses it as a bludgeon. The demon squalls as its knee shatters. It topples, the thud of its body making the ground shake. Spike pushes himself upright, crushing the demon’s head with one blow of his sword, leaving half of it in the demon’s skull.

Shaking his head to clear it, Spike limps toward the sound of battle. He turns down an alley, seeing Illyria at the other end of it, bodies lying like so much litter at her feet. As if she senses him, Blue turns and watches as he makes his way to her. Spike wants a cigarette and a drink. What he gets is a breather, and a chance to rest. He leans against a building, glad of its support. He nods a greeting at her, offers a sort of a salute with his broken sword.

Illyria watches him with her unblinking gaze.

Spike smears blood with the back of his hand, realizing his mouth has been cut sometime during the fight. His voice is strange and slurred when as he asks, “Seen Angel, Blue?”

He feels her curiosity, then, somehow, her expression clears. “He is dead.”

The sword drops out of his hand. Spike cannot weep, or wail, but the words crush him like an impossible weight, leaving him weakened with his grief. Illyria says something, about Angel, and heroes, and Spike guesses she’s trying to offer him some comfort. It’s hard as hell to take. He wants to ball up and let the battle wash over him but Illyria’s throwing him a sword. It’s either catch it or lose a couple of fingers. Spike gives it an experimental thrust. Illyria is still watching him and he pushes himself upright. Wouldn’t do to let himself appear weak, not in front of the God King Illyria, even if it seems like a part of his world has ended.

“I grow weary of these human emotions.” Illyria is watching him again, and Spike wonders if she’s testing him. “I desire more violence.” She swings her blade almost playfully. Blood splatters off the end of it.

Spike takes a deep, unnecessary breath. He’d kill for a cigarette. “Bloody hell.” This has to be what hell is really like. Knowing there is no way to win, and the only way to go out is to go out swinging. He almost wants to know how Angel died, but what would be the use of that? It isn’t like he’ll have time to hunt down the demon who killed his grandsire. For all he knows, Illyria already did, if she saw Angel go down. He refuses to ask about the others. If Angel’s gone, there’s no way the others are still alive. There’s no time to spare for grief, not if Blue’s striding off into battle again.

It’s all he can do to follow in her wake. He can’t remember what happened to his leg but it’s a mess. Spike wonders where Dru is. How she would’ve predicted it with some song about the stars whispering to her. There is a pang deep inside of him. He would’ve liked to see her one last time. He thinks about Bit, and the Slayer, and shakes his head to rid himself of those thoughts. It didn’t matter, not now.

Illyria stands at the mouth of the alley. Spike forces his legs to move faster to catch up to Blue, wondering what she’s thinking of. Does she have any regrets? Would she tell him if he asked? He’s surprised, suddenly realizing the tilt of her shoulders shows just how tired Illyria is but she’s going to fight on. It’s not like they really have any other choice. Illyria’s eyebrow lifts as he approaches. “You are damaged more than I thought.”

He waves off what comes across as concern from Blue. “I’ll manage.” His laugh is short and sharp and as pointed as one of the Slayer’s stakes. “It’s up to us to stop the whole bloody apocalypse, right?” Outside the alley, the battle rages on. The scent of blood and death is in the early morning air. “Smells like victory,” Spike mutters to himself.

The demon appears like a ghost, out of the corner of his eye, and Spike doesn’t move fast enough to counter the attack. The spear pierces him, an exquisite pain, and for a split second, he wonders if this is what Angel felt, or whether he’d been beheaded, or sliced in half, but then his own agony overwhelms all thought. He stares at Illyria, sees recognition in her icy eyes, of his mortality – ha, what a laugh – as he drops to his knees.

In his head, like a badly cut film, Spike sees himself, sees Illyria, sees Fred and Wesley and Gunn. Sees Angel, with that stupid billowy coat of heroism. Sees Bit and the Slayer, and Red. Sees Dru, dancing in circles on bodies of innocents, and those not so innocent.

He sees in his mind the end of the world, and Yeat’s rough beast is mirrored in Illyria’s sapphire eyes.

Not with a whimper, but a bang –

X X X


End file.
